


Raising Amelia

by Zaffie



Category: Chicago Fire
Genre: Brett And Casey Slow Burn, Brett's Baby Half-Sister, F/M, I Always Forget How To Do This, I Don't Wanna Have A Billion Character Tags, Sorry Just Read The Description, Surprise! Here's A Baby!, The Other Firehouse Guys Are There Too, This Is Taking Me Ages And All My Tags Suck, This Title Is A Cliche, my bad guys, okay so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:40:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24620224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaffie/pseuds/Zaffie
Summary: In the middle of a summer wedding in Fowlerton, Brett gets the most important call of her life. Overnight, she's a mom, and returning to Chicago with a new baby and a ton of baggage and responsibility that she's not sure she can handle.Post-Season 8 AU.
Relationships: Sylvie Brett/Matthew Casey
Comments: 100
Kudos: 193





	1. It's Not Tonsillitis

**Author's Note:**

> So, killing off Brett's birth-mum seemed kind of ridiculous and unfair - the Chicago shows really have an awful track record with pregnancies - and then having her baby sister move out of Chicago made it feel like a completely wasted plot thread to me (maybe there was more we didn't get because of corona! who knows?). I was pretty sure they'd have Brett take the baby, and was pretty disappointed that they didn't.  
> Obviously the solution to the disappointment was to write it.
> 
> I struggled a little with characterisation as I've never written these characters before! I think I'm finally satisfied with the first chapter, so here we go. Hope you guys enjoy :)  
> Warning for a few OCs if you hate those - I promise they won't be around long.

By midday on Thursday, it’s becoming increasingly clear that Foster isn’t going to be able to make it to the wedding.

“I’m fine,” she insists, slumped in the passenger seat on their drive back to the firehouse. “Seriously, Brett, I’m fine.” And then she blows her nose pathetically.

Sylvie shakes her head, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel. “You’re not fine, you’re sick. Just admit it.”

“I never get sick.”

They bump up the driveway and Foster groans, putting a hand to the side of her head.

“See?” Sylvie says, manoeuvring through the bay doors and coming to a stop. She switches off the engine and turns in her seat to face Foster. “You’ve got a headache, your eyes are red and you’ve been sneezing all morning.”

“Allergies?” Foster suggests feebly.

“Nope.” Sylvie unbuckles her seatbelt. “Come on, I’ll make you a hot drink.”

Foster sniffs sadly. “It’s June. I don’t want a hot drink.”

“Honey and lemon?” Sylvie wheedles as they hop out of the ambo and head inside.

“Fine,” Foster sighs. “Under protest, I will sit on the couch and let you take care of me.”

Under protest. Sure. Sylvie grins and gives Foster a little shove towards the couch, saying, “Off you go, then,” as she makes her way to the kitchenette.

The real problem with Foster being sick is that they’re supposed to leave for Fowlerton _tomorrow._ The wedding is on Saturday; Sylvie and Foster were going to take a shift off, spend three nights at Sylvie’s parents’ farm and then drive back on Monday. Sylvie considers this while she stirs honey into a mug of boiling water. There’s no way she wants to make Foster come on a three-hour road trip when she’s sick; she also doesn’t want a nasty cold to be her wedding present to her brother. Foster can’t come.

Hopefully, this isn’t going to be a big deal. Sylvie delivers the mug to Foster, who is already looking very comfortable with a pillow propped behind her head and the TV tuned to B-list horror. Putting a hand on her friend's shoulder, Brett says, “I’m going to call my brother, okay?”

Foster frowns. “I might be better by tomorrow,” she says.

“Uh huh, sure,” Sylvie says sceptically. “I’m gonna go ahead and call him anyway.”

The hallway is quiet; they’ve had a slow day, so Squad 3 is out running drills on the drive. Brett watches them while she walks through the bay and then climbs into the back of the ambo. It’s the best place for a private phone call – or to sit and read a magazine, a lot of the time. She lies on her front on the gurney and dials Eric’s number.

He picks up on the first ring. “You better not be cancelling.”

“What?” Sylvie laughs. “No!”

“Okay, good,” Eric says, blowing out a heavy breath. “Maddie’s going nuts about all this wedding stuff and I need you there to balance her out.”

“How is Maddie?” Sylvie asks. She’s one of only a handful of people who know that Eric’s fiancé is pregnant; he’d only told their parents two weeks ago, on Sylvie’s insistence.

“She’s good,” Eric says, “she’s doing fine, and she still fits into her dress, which is a big deal, apparently.”

Sylvie laughs again. “Okay, so I gotta tell you that Foster can’t make it.”

“Wasn’t she your plus one?”

“Yeah, but she’s sick, so I told her to stay.”

“Oh. Uh, no. No way, Sylvie, she’s gotta come.”

“What?”

“Seriously, you can’t cancel anything like that now. Maddie will lose her _shit_.”

“But – she’s sick?”

“Then find someone else to bring, okay? There’s the tables and all the food stuff and… please don’t make me tell Maddie there’s been a change of plans.”

“It’s a really tiny change!”

“Nope, sorry, no changes. Ask someone else.”

Sylvie groans. “Eric…”

“I’m serious!”

“Okay, okay. I’ll ask Kidd.”

“See?” he says. “Easy! Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” The bells go off and Brett sighs, heaving herself up off the gurney. “Eric, I gotta go. Love you.”

“Love you too,” he says, and hangs up.

Sylvie gets into the front of the ambulance and waits for Foster, staring through the windscreen at the Squad 3 guys and wondering who will agree to come on a last minute trip to Indiana.

In the end, the person whose agreement she _really_ needed turns out to be Chief Boden, and he won’t give it. No one else is allowed to take leave for their upcoming shift.

“I’m sorry, Brett,” he says, “but I’ve already brought in spare paramedics for you and Foster, Casey’s out with his injury and I can’t afford to lose anyone else short notice.”

So that avenue is a bust. She can’t ask Kidd or anyone else from the firehouse. She has other friends in Chicago, of course, but none that are really close enough to her to invite to her brother’s wedding, especially with only a day’s notice.

On the other hand, one of her best friends already has next shift off after breaking a rib two weeks ago, which makes him uniquely available for a drive to Indiana. She calls Casey.

Foster has a sleepless night. Brett can hear her partner tossing and turning, the bed springs squeaking in chorus with Mouch’s snoring. By Friday morning, the other woman looks awful, with puffy, red eyes to match the swelling at the base of her jaw. Every time she swallows, her whole face contorts with pain.

“I think your tonsils are infected,” Brett says, touching the back of her hand to Foster’s forehead when they’re in the locker-room together. “You have a fever.”

“It’s not tonsillitis.”

“Are you sure?”

Foster leans in close to the mirror on her locker door, opening her mouth wide and using her phone as a torch to peer down her own throat. Sylvie laughs to herself while she packs away Foster’s gear as well as her own.

“Okay, my tonsils look infected.”

“Told you so.”

Foster holds up one finger, shakes her head and says, “ _But_ it might not be tonsillitis. It could be strep. Or glandular fever. Or-”

“I like tonsillitis the most,” Sylvie says, handing Foster’s rucksack over. “Quick round of antibiotics and you can knock that right out. By the time I get home you’ll be ready to kick my ass in spin class again.”

Casey is walking up the drive as they exit through the bay doors, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, duffel over his shoulder and an easy smile spreading across his face. “Hey, Brett. You ready to go?”

“Yeah!” Sylvie says eagerly. “Just let me grab Foster's stuff from my car, hang on.”

“Give me that,” Casey suggests, holding out his hand for Brett’s duffel. “How’re you feeling, Foster?”

“Horrible,” Foster says miserably. She drags her heels towards Sylvie’s car and waits until Sylvie pops the trunk before she yanks her suitcase out.

“Are you sure Cruz knows he's taking you home?” Sylvie asks. Casey leans past her to toss both his rucksack and Sylvie's into the car.

Foster sighs. “Uh huh."

“Just get some decent sleep, all right?”

“That’s the plan.”

Sylvie smiles sympathetically. “Good luck."

“Thanks. Tell your brother congratulations from me.”

“I will!”

They don’t hug – just on the off-chance Foster is contagious. Brett waits, smiling, until she sees Foster climb into Cruz's car on the other side of the road. Only then does she turn towards her car. Casey's already sitting in the driver's seat, grinning at her through the window as she slides into the passenger side.

"You're driving?" she asks.

“I figured you'd be tired after a whole night of Mouch's snoring," he says, grinning. "How was shift?” 

“Pretty slow, actually,” Brett says. “How’s the rib?”

“Absolutely fine, which I keep telling my doctor, but she doesn’t believe me.”

Sylvie giggles. “Good for her.”

“Hey!”

“Thanks for this, by the way,” she adds as they peel away from the firehouse. “I know it’s short notice but-”

“Not like I was doing anything anyway,” Casey reminds her. “You’ve saved me from a really boring weekend.”

“Really?”

“Well. Sort of. So, your brother’s fiancé’s gone Bridezilla, huh?”

“No, she’s sweet,” Sylvie says. She hesitates, then, “Well, she’s sweet _most_ of the time. They’re both just really stressed about the shotgun wedding thing.” It takes a second before she realises what she’s said and then she claps a hand over her mouth, turning wide-eyed towards Casey. Damnit. She’s an idiot.

“Shotgun wedding?”

“Oh, my god,” Brett says through her hand.

“Not public knowledge?”

Sylvie shakes her head rapidly, squeaks, “No!”

“Okay, I got it. I won’t say anything about it,” Casey promises. “Why’d your brother tell you? He must know you can’t keep a secret.”

“I can!” Sylvie protests, finally letting her hand drop from her face.

“Nah.”

“I can!”

There’s silence in the car for a moment, broken by the sound of the turn signal ticking away. Julie’s face floats to the surface of her mind and suddenly Sylvie’s thinking about another, very different pregnancy. When she glances sideways at Casey he’s staring straight out through the windscreen with his lips pressed into a tight line. She wonders if he’s thinking about another pregnancy, too.

Sylvie reaches into her bag for a charger and plugs it into the car. “Is music okay?” she asks, plugging her phone into the other end.

“Huh? Oh, um, yeah. Go for it.”

The little burst of tension eases with the music. Sylvie hums along under her breath, giggles when Casey cranks the volume a few minutes later as a Foo Fighters song comes on. He looks sideways at her, grinning, drums on the steering wheel and then bursts out singing with the chorus.

That just makes Brett laugh more, and Casey looks pleased with himself and gets louder, bobbing his head in time to the beat. His singing voice is surprisingly tuneful and there’s a bright joy in his face which she can’t seem to stop staring at. Sylvie joins in after a moment and they both sing at the top of their lungs, taking it in turns to sneak glances at one another and laughing whenever their eyes meet.

By the time the song ends, Sylvie is breathless and flushed and happier than she can remember being in a long time. She looks over at Matt again and feels a surge of affection so overwhelming that it scares her. She catches her breath and turns away from him to stare out the window, forcing herself to think about anything else.

After two and a half hours, they trade places and Sylvie drives the last hour and a bit, settling in to comfortable old habits as they reach Fowlerton and she navigates the familiar streets. She can’t resist a little bit of reminiscing; telling Casey stupid stories about growing up here. He asks questions in all the right places, like he’s actually genuinely interested. He probably is, Sylvie thinks. Typical Casey. He'll probably remember all this stuff, too, and so she tries to curtail herself a little bit; make sure she's not oversharing.

“There’s a lot of corn,” he notes as they drive up the little county roads.

“There is,” Sylvie agrees, looking over the flat green scenery. She loves Chicago – she _does_ , more than anything – but there’s something about coming back here that always makes her relax. It fills her with a kind of peace, the quiet roads and the endless squares of farmland broken only by telegraph poles and the occasional tree.

It’s just getting to midday as they coast up the long gravel drive of the farmhouse and park out front. The house is mottled beige brick, with a broad porch and three gabled dormer windows peeking out from the roof. There's a combination barn/garage off to the side, an old red tractor sitting beside Sylvie's parents' car and an ancient old swing still dangling from the single massive oak tree that overshadows the house.

“My room,” Sylvie says, pointing to the window on the far left. “And Eric’s, until I turned twelve and decided I needed _privacy_.”

“Oh, of course.”

When she gets out of the truck Sylvie can't move for a second. The gravel crunches under her feet, the sun is fierce and hot on the top of her head and the smell of an Indiana summer hangs in the air. It all floods over her; memories and hopes and dreams and it’s almost too much, just for a moment.

Casey breaks the spell, slamming the trunk shut and then nudging her duffel into her legs. “Hey. You okay?”

She smiles gratefully at him and takes her bag. “Fine,” she says. “It’s weird to be back. And… weirder, after… Kyle.” That thought twists awkwardly inside her; one she’s been shaking off since Eric first told her about the wedding.

“I get it,” Casey says. “But don’t forget, it’s only one weekend, right? And after that you’re straight back to Chicago and your normal life.”

“Yeah,” Sylvie concedes.

“Just enjoy it while you’re here,” he advises, “and remember that it’s only temporary.”

And then they don’t have any more time to talk because Brett’s mom comes hurtling out of the house towards them, practically vaulting the porch steps in her eagerness.

“Oh my goodness! Sylvie, sweetheart!” She flings her arms around Sylvie, hugs her tightly, releases her and turns to fling her arms around Casey, too. He gives Sylvie a baffled look over her mom’s shoulder and she has to bite her tongue to keep from laughing. 

“Mom,” she says, “you clearly remember Matt.”

“Yes, of course! We met at…” she trails off. “Well, anyway! I’m so glad you could come.”

_At the funeral_. That’s what she’d nearly said. Sylvie sucks in a breath which seems to sting the back of her throat, but she pushes those thoughts away and takes a step closer to Casey as her mom lets go of him.

“It’s a pleasure to be here, ma’am,” Casey says.

“Oh, no ma’am! Call me Ella.”

“Ella. Thanks.”

A rough voice from the door calls, “Bring them inside, why don’t you?” and Sylvie’s a little startled by just how happy she is to hear her dad. It’s only been a couple of months since she’d last seen them; but those circumstances had been very, very different. Julie’s funeral had been awful, and having her parents there had been confusing, rather than comforting.

Now, though, the atmosphere is warm and cheery and it couldn’t be more different. Mom is downright giddy as she leads them up the porch and in through the front door, where Dad greets Sylvie with a hug and a kiss and Casey with a firm handshake. The big main room of the farmhouse is full of light spilling in through the back windows, and Dopey is racing across to greet them, his claws clicking on the polished wooden floor.

“Hey, Dopey!” Sylvie drops to her knees to let the border collie lick her face, winding both hands into the ruff of fur at his neck and laughing as he wiggles with joy, his tail hammering against the stair bannister beside them.

Casey gently knocks his leg against Sylvie's shoulder. "Do I take my shoes off?"

"No, that's okay. You need to say hi to Dopey, though, or he'll get offended."

Casey kneels beside her and Dopey leaps at him immediately, tail going frantically at the prospect of a new human to greet.

Eric yells from the kitchen, “Hurry up, the food’s getting cold!”

“You will _wait_ for your sister and our guest,” Mom snaps back immediately, and she steps over Dopey - now lying on his back while Matt rubs his chest - and heads for the kitchen.

The stairs creak and Sylvie looks up them to see her brother’s fiancé coming down slowly and a little uncertainly. She smiles at Sylvie, sweeps her long red hair back from her face and says, “I’m so glad you could make it.”

“Me, too,” Sylvie says honestly.

Maddie hesitates only briefly before she goes in for a hug. The two of them don’t know each other that well; they’ve only hung out a handful of times. Still, Brett squeezes the other woman’s shoulders and beams at her when she draws away.

“I’m so glad Eric’s got you,” she says. “And I’m _so_ happy I could come to see you two get married.”

A little bit of the tension seems to leech from Maddie’s spine. “Thank you.”

Lunch is burgers and a deceptively simple-looking potato salad which Sylvie knows is one of her mom’s best kept cooking secrets. As usual, her dad takes his portion and heads outside to ‘work', although he'll probably end up sitting on the porch swing. Mom actually gets as far as plating up her own meal before she remembers some chore she needs to finish upstairs and bustles off. Neither of them are any good at sitting still.

Casey takes one bite of the potato salad and turns to Brett in shock. “Oh, my god,” he mumbles with his mouth full.

She laughs. “Right? It's Mom's secret recipe.”

Casey swallows and says, "Do you know the secret?"

"Of course!"

“Then why haven’t you ever made this at the house?”

“At the house?” Maddie asks. “I didn’t realise you two were…”

Sylvie says, “Oh, we’re not,” as Casey holds up a hand and shakes his head to communicate the same thing; his mouth is full of potato salad again.

Maddie’s face flushes almost as red as her hair. “Sorry,” she says quietly, looking down at her plate.

She looks chastised and embarrassed and Sylvie feels bad for her – it’s an easy mistake to make and certainly nothing that she and Casey can’t handle. Brett’s about to say something to comfort the younger woman when Matt jumps in.

“You’re not the first,” he says easily, “because we do share a kitchen and a bathroom and almost a bedroom, actually.” He grins at Maddie’s baffled look and adds, “I work with Sylvie at the firehouse.”

“Oh. _Oh!_ You’re a fireman?” She flushes again and corrects herself quickly, “Fire _fighter_.”

“Yes to both,” Casey says. “Brett cooks for the whole house, if we’re very lucky.”

“Only when I’m bored.”

“We appreciate it deeply,” he grins, bumping his shoulder against hers. 

“They don’t, Maddie,” Sylvie says. “It’s like living with _twenty_ brothers. They’re all about as nosy as Eric, too.”

“Hey!”

“Do you deny reading my diary when I was in the ninth grade?”

Eric rolls his eyes. “No, but-”

Sylvie points triumphantly at him. “Aha! No buts. You’re nosy.” She smiles when Maddie laughs at that, relaxing a little in her seat. It’s important to be friends with her brother’s fiancé, Sylvie thinks. At least, she wants it to be important. And, sure, she’s a little selfishly motivated here – once the baby is born, Maddie is more likely to send daily updates with dozens of cute pictures than Eric is.

“You’d better be nice to me,” Eric says seriously. “We’re sharing a room tonight, you know.”

“Wait, seriously? Where’s Maddie sleeping?”

“At my aunt's place,” Maddie explains.

“It’s a tradition, Syl,” Eric says. “Spending the night before the wedding apart?”

“Why do you have to share with _me?_ ” she mock-whines. "How come you can't share with Casey?"

Mom, of course, chooses that moment to come back into the room. “Because I thought that Matt might appreciate his own space, Sylvie, after you forced him to drive all the way down here with that injury.”

“I didn’t _force_ him,” she objects, feeling a twinge of guilt tug at her. That’s dangerously close to what she’s been thinking all day, actually.

But Casey smiles and says, "No force required. I was going stir-crazy stuck in my apartment anyway.” He glances sideways at Sylvie and gives her a little smile that tugs at the corners of her mouth until she finds herself smiling back like an idiot.

When she looks away, she catches Eric watching them thoughtfully.

“Hey, mermaid,” Eric says. “I’ve got a question. What’s going on with you and Matt?”

Sylvie turns around sharply to find him leaning against her bedroom door, arms folded and a little frown line between his eyebrows.

“What do you mean?” she asks, knowing where this is going. She hadn't been kidding, earlier. Her family is stupid nosy.

“More than friends?”

“No, Eric.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Sylvie says sharply, smoothing down her bridesmaids dress as she hooks it carefully into place in the wardrobe. “He’s my friend, Eric. Like Foster’s my friend. There’s nothing different about them, okay? Just because Casey’s a guy, you all think-”

“That’s not why I’m asking,” Eric interrupts. “I’m asking because I know you, and I know that sappy look on your face.”

“Sappy look? Seriously?”

“Syl…”

“Why don’t you butt out and focus on your own relationship, okay?” she snaps, suddenly irrationally angry.

“Whoa. Okay. I’m just watching out for you.”

“I don’t need you to. Casey’s a good guy. He was married to my best friend. There is no sappy look. There's never going to be any sappy look.”

“Right.”

Sylvie uses a foot to shove her duffel under the bed, maybe a little harder than is necessary, and then she turns towards Eric and folds her own arms. “He’s been there for me through a lot of stuff, you know. Whatever you think you see, it’s gratitude, that’s all. After…” she swallows hard, forces the name out, “…Julie, I was a wreck at work. Casey got me through it.”

There’s more to it than that – so much more – but Sylvie can’t manage to put any of it into words. There was that ache of loss after Gabby left so suddenly; the horrible hole in her life, the sense of abandonment creeping up over her again. Eric is her parents’ biological child. He’s their miracle baby, the one they never thought they’d be able to have after all those failed rounds of IVF. Sylvie’s never felt like her parents treat him any differently, not really, but she also knows that he’s never tossed and turned at night, unable to sleep and helplessly wondering _why_. Why had she been given away? What was wrong with her? 

Gabby leaving just brought it all back to the surface and Casey was the only other person who felt that way. How can she explain to her brother what it was like, those first few months? She clung to Casey because he _got it_. He understood. She'd never been able to share that feeling with anyone before. 

And then that awful, painful realisation that she’d let it go too far. Suddenly she was finding her eyes lingering as he walked through the firehouse; she was texting him stupid, inane things just to have a conversation off-shift. She trusted him implicitly - more than anyone else at 51 - there was this tiny new kernel of fear inside her on every call as she watched him. She didn't know how, or when, but he became her first call when something happened. For everything in her life, she went to him _first_. Not Kidd, or Foster, or Cruz. Always Casey.

She hadn't meant for this to happen and she didn’t want it; not the feelings and definitely not a connection that even her freaking _spin-class_ instructor could pick up on. It was wrong and it wasn’t fair to Gabby, or to Casey, who thought she was his friend. She _was_ his friend. That was enough for her.

So she’s done her best to shut it all down, has buried everything deep inside her and refuses to let herself think about it again.

“Hey,” Eric says. He takes a few steps into the room and puts his hands on her shoulders. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s been a rough year,” he says solemnly. “I get it, Syl. I’m sorry.”

Sylvie shakes her head, refocusing on what really matters. “I’m fine. Seriously, he’s just a friend. A really great friend. Everyone at fifty-one is great, actually. I got stupid lucky with that house.”

Her brother smiles. “Yeah. You never shut up about it.”

“Hey!”

“Kidding.”

“You watch it, mister,” she threatens. “I’ve got _loads_ of dirt on you. Should I go tell Maddie why there’s a massive black scorch mark under your bedroom window?”

“I – I knocked over a candle.”

“Uh huh,” Sylvie says, winking. “We all believe you. And, hey, where’d you get a candle that smelt so strongly of marijuana?”

“I was fifteen!”

“You set your own pants on fire.”

“Don’t you dare tell Maddie,” he threatens.

Sylvie grins. _Now_ they’re back to normal. “Are you gonna be nice to me?”

“I can be nice. I’m so nice.”

“Well okay then.”


	2. The Fowlerton Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word count on this one is really getting away from me. I'm sorry! Especially to those reading on mobile where sometimes it doesn't save how far down the chapter you've scrolled and it's really ANNOYING... I just really couldn't find a good place to split this chapter. My bad, guys.
> 
> Next chapter: plot! Finally. Apologies also for the extended prologue that the first two chaps have been. I had a little more trouble finding 'voices' for these two than I thought I would, so I wrote excessive introductory scenes to compensate.

Matt rolls onto his right side and wakes himself with a twinge of pain that flares into an unpleasant throbbing as he comes all the way out of sleep. His ribs playing up again. It’s not the first time he’s fractured them, but experience doesn’t make it hurt any less. Wincing, he shifts gingerly to lie on his back, the bedsheets tangling around his legs.

The room is sweltering, he notices now. His shirt is damp with sweat and sticking to his skin. Carefully, Matt pushes himself up to a sitting position. He kicks the sheets away and peels his shirt off, tossing it in the corner. His ribs complain with every movement – injuries always seem to hurt more at night.

Something scrapes at his door.

Matt whips his head around immediately, his mind filled with crackling, roaring flames, a panicky pounding in his temples telling him to _get up, get out, go, go, go_. Pain spikes up to his shoulder and he ignores it as he leaps off the bed and yanks the door open.

No fire; just a cool, dim hallway, tinted silver by the moonlight shining through the big windows over the stairs, and a large, brown-and-white dog sitting at the edge of the door and wiggling enthusiastically. Matt feels stupid immediately, the adrenaline leaving his body in a rush. He'd thought he was over this - he _should_ be over this.

He bends to rub his hands over Dopey's silky, scrunchy ears. “Hi, boy,” Matt murmurs. "Did you want to come in?”

Dopey half-closes his eyes in bliss and Matt laughs quietly, rubbing under the dog’s chin. He needs a dog, honestly. He’s been spoilt, at the firehouse, having first Pouch and now Tuesday, but having his own dog would be something else.

The toilet at the end of the hall flushes and Brett emerges moments later, padding barefoot down the hallway to stand outside Matt’s room. He rises to meet her.

“Hey,” she whispers, looking a bit sheepish, “did I wake you? Sorry.”

He shakes his head. “It wasn’t you.” If he tells her about his ribs, though, she’ll feel worried – or guilty about asking him to come – so instead he says, “I got too hot.” It’s only a half untruth.

Brett’s eyes drop from his face down to his bare chest and up again. “Oh, right,” she says. “You know that little narrow window, right above the bed? That one opens. The latch is kinda tricky, but don’t be scared to give it a good shove.”

Matt watches her while she talks. He’s never seen Sylvie looking quite like this. He’s seen her sleepy and rumpled at the firehouse, of course – he’s seen her dazed and messy-haired when the bells drag her out of sleep, quiet and wide-eyed while she sips her coffee at ungodly hours of the morning – but this is different. His eyes are drawn to where her baggy black sleep shirt slips off one shoulder; drawn to the long, smooth lines of her legs beneath faded pink shorts. The moonlight makes her skin glow and her hair shine, loose and wavy where it brushes the top of her bare shoulder. It’s so different from what he sees at work. There’s a softness in her face – in the way she looks at him.

“It’ll help you fall back asleep,” she says.

“Hmm?”

“Listening to the crickets.” She smiles shyly up at him. “At least, it always helps me.”

Matt snaps out of it. Of course it feels a little strange seeing Brett like this – so open and unguarded – but he’s here as her friend, to support her, not… stare at the smattering of freckles on the creamy skin just below her collarbone, which he must’ve glimpsed in locker-rooms before but has somehow never really _looked at_.

“What about this one?” he asks, stooping a little to rub under Dopey’s chin and very deliberately not looking at Brett. “Does he want to come in?”

“He just gets cranky any time I hop out of bed,” she says, half laughing. “C’mon, Dopes.” She nudges the dog with her foot until he stands up and moves a little way down the hall.

“Goodnight,” Matt says quietly.

Sylvie goes up on her toes and hugs him quite suddenly, pinioning his arms to his sides while she clings to him and says against his ear, “Thank you so much for coming.”

“You’re welcome.”

She steps back and beams at him before turning and chivvying Dopey along down the hallway, the two of them disappearing into the last room on the right.

Matt walks back into his room, closing the door softly behind him. He can still feel the cool press of Brett’s hands against the hot skin of his back. Careful not to aggravate his ribs any further, he pries open the long, narrow window above the headboard of his bed. When he lies back down, he catches a trace of some faint, strawberry scent that he thinks might have come from Brett’s hair.

He falls asleep listening to the crickets.

The whole thing feels distant and dreamlike in the morning. Things are back to normal in the bright sunshine. Brett and her brother tussle over the prime toothbrushing space in front of the sink in the same way she’ll play-fight with Cruz or Kidd at the firehouse. She grins at Matt when she passes him on the way out of the bathroom and he laughs.

“Good to know she’s just as bad here as she is in Chicago,” he says teasingly to Eric.

The other man half-smiles, looking distracted. “Yeah.”

“Wedding day jitters?” Matt asks.

“Not… jitters, really. I think I might hurl.”

“I think that’s normal,” Matt says. “It’ll be worth it, though. Trust me.”

Eric turns at that and gives him a curious look. “Right,” he says, frowning. “You’ve been married before, haven’t you?”

“I was,” Matt confirms. He braces himself for the surge of feeling that always comes with talking about Gabby – hurt, misery and anger all tangled up with love and nostalgia – but it’s not as bad as he’d expected. It all feels a little muted, actually, and there’s a kind of peace mixed in with the rest, somewhere deep down. When he says, “It didn’t work out,” the words don’t drive all the air from his lungs like they used to.

“Huh. But you’re still saying it’s worth it?” Eric questions.

“I guess I am.” Matt shrugs. “Love’s like that, right?”

“Sure.”

Matt claps Eric on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit.” He leaves Eric staring into the bathroom mirror, still looking a little green around the gills, and returns to his room to get dressed.

The wedding isn’t until four that afternoon. Matt sets out his suit on the bed but changes into jeans and a t-shirt for the meantime. He’s sitting on the armchair in the corner of the room and struggling with his socks when there’s a quiet knock at the door.

“Come in?”

Brett pokes her head around the edge of the door and says, “There’s breakfast downstairs,” then frowns and comes all the way in when she sees him. “Are your ribs hurting?”

“No,” Matt lies.

“Do you always look like you’re responding to a four-alarm fire when you put on socks?”

“Yes,” he says, deadpan. “I really hate socks.”

Brett folds her arms over her chest. “Hm.” She’s still wearing her PJs, although in the morning light she looks a lot more solid, not quite the dazzling, ethereal figure of the night before. Matt thinks about the way he’d felt then and wonders if he’d gone temporarily insane. This is _Brett_. She’s one of his _best friends_ – ranking right up there with Severide at the top of the list – and he doesn’t stare when _Severide_ wanders around the apartment half-dressed.

“It’s really not that bad,” Matt tells her. “I’ll be back on shift in a couple of weeks.” He’s been counting down the days.

“I know,” Brett says, softening. “I just don’t want you to push it.”

“I won’t.”

“You can stay in your room as much as you like,” she insists, “and you can leave the reception early, too, no one will mind. Even the ceremony-”

“Brett. It’s a wedding, not a hockey game,” Matt says, amused. “I think I can handle it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m pretty confident, yeah.”

She flashes him a quick smile. “Okay. I’m supposed to meet the rest of the bridesmaids at the venue – Mom’s coming with me. Are you good here?”

“Extremely,” Matt says.

“Don’t let Dad drag you around the farm too much. You can just go sit in the hammock and rest, if you like.”

“You make it sound like I’m on death’s door.”

Brett rolls her eyes. “You guys are all the same. Stella practically had to tie Severide down to make him rest the last time he was on medical leave.”

“Maybe we're fine, and you coddle us,” Matt protests.

“We do _not_ ,” she pouts, mock offended.

Matt grins. He’s missed this sunny, bubbly attitude from Brett. She’s gotten a little lost lately – Julie’s death and Foster’s imminent departure have left a bit of a cloud hanging over her.

“Go on,” he says, “get out of here. I’m fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Seriously.”

“Okay,” Brett says. “I’ll see you this afternoon!”

She takes a couple of steps forward, puts a hand on Casey’s shoulder and bends. Automatically – instinctively – he turns his cheek towards her and she kisses it like it’s totally normal, like it’s a routine, and then she’s gone and he’s sitting there and _then_ it feels weird.

Immediately, he knows he’s an idiot. What the hell has he just done? He practically presented his goddamn cheek to her like he expected a kiss goodbye. He hadn’t even thought about it, he’d just… moved. And she had, too, without a hesitation or even a flicker of unease in her eyes.

There’s a light knock and Brett’s face reappears around the edge of the door. “Um,” she says.

Quickly Matt says, “Sorry.”

“What? No, I’m sorry. That was weird.” She can’t meet his eyes.

“It was weird,” Matt agrees fervently.

An extremely pregnant pause stretches between them.

“Well,” Brett says. “Sorry.”

“Sorry,” Matt repeats.

She closes the door again.

“And that’s our chicken shed,” George Brett says, gesturing to a lopsided, ramshackle structure just behind the garden fence. “Used to be a cow shed on Joe King’s place, over the road, but about twenty years ago a tornado snatched that sucker up and dumped it right down here.” He glances sideways at Matt and shrugs. “Figured the whole thing might fall apart if we tried to move it back, so here it stays.”

“Any cows in it at the time?” Matt asks with interest.

George chuckles. “No, luckily for us. That would’ve been a much bigger mess to clean up. Even the chickens don’t like it much. We’ve had to put wire around the whole thing to keep the foxes out. It’s not exactly structurally sound.”

“Yeah, I bet it isn’t.”

“I spent a lot of summers chasing Sylvie and Eric outta there,” George confides. “Seems like kids always gravitate right towards the most dangerous thing they can find.”

“Oh, always,” Casey agrees. “Severide – he’s our Squad lieutenant – found a kid trapped in a backhoe loader one time. The two of them were in there for nearly thirty hours.”

“Trapped?”

“The thing toppled over with the kid inside,” Matt says. “Severide crawled in to help and the loader shifted and he got stuck too.” He shrugs. “Typical Squad behaviour. They love playing the hero, you know.”

George smiles a little as he leads the way further through the garden. “And the kid?”

“Made it through just fine,” Matt says. “He was a tough kid.”

“They are, aren’t they? Kids,” George elaborates, when Matt glances at him. “Kids are always tougher than we think.” He sighs. “You know, right from the day we brought her home, Sylvie was… this little ball of light. Always so bright and so happy. Watching her grow up, I could see she was something special.”

“She still is,” Casey says quietly.

George looks askance at him, but ploughs on, like there’s something he needs to get off his chest. “She loved _fiercely_ – us, and Eric, and her friends. Even in high school, when some of those girls were up to no good and we all knew it, Sylvie still trusted them. She’d trust them right up until they turned and stabbed her in the back.”

Matt’s starting to get a sense of what this might be about. The things that happen at work; the pain and the gore and the hopelessness of the ones they can't save. The times they hold someone's hand while they're bleeding or burning or dying. Having to get up the next morning and prepare to do it all again. Matt understands why Brett's dad might struggle with the thought of his daughter dealing with all of that. He stays quiet anyway, waiting while George opens the little gate set into the white picket fence around the garden and leads them both out towards the cornfields.

“I couldn’t stand the thought of her losing that beautiful soul,” George continues, after a moment. “I tried so hard to protect her and to shield her from everything.” He looks down, twisting his fingers together. “It was all for nothing, I guess. Now she sees those horrors every day. The things you all do? It kills me, sometimes, thinking of my baby girl in the middle of that.”

Finally they’ve reached the crux of the conversation. George won’t meet Matt’s eyes; he’s staring out over the fields, thumbs tucked in his belt loops, this big, strong, solid man who’s just admitted how terrified he is for his daughter. The only reason Matt’s hearing all of this is because he’s in a position to answer those unspoken questions. He gets it – the thoughts are spilling out because George is worried, because Matt is here and, probably, because Eric is getting married and emotions are running high.

Lush, green rows of corn shift and rustle when the wind catches them. The breeze is cool on Matt’s face, bringing the faint scents of fresh-mown grass and clean animals. He can hear a tractor somewhere in the distance. The cornfield stretches right to the horizon in a flat, unbroken line of green, where it meets the vivid periwinkle blue of the cloudless sky. It’s beautiful. It doesn’t help Matt know what to say. He feels like he’s supposed to get this right – like he _owes_ it to Brett to give her parents some sort of comfort.

Hesitantly, Matt says, “The stuff we see… you’re right, it is horrible. And, yes, sometimes it stays with us. Sometimes we go home and can’t get it out of our heads.” He pauses, gauging the older man’s reaction. George still isn’t looking at him. Matt forges ahead. “Brett – Sylvie – she’s one of the strongest people I know.”

George snorts. “Oh, I know that, son. You don’t need to tell me how strong my girl is.”

Casey frowns, puzzled. “Then… what-”

“She never asked us about her birth parents, you know. Not once.” He shrugs. “I thought I was protecting her, but she was keeping her own heart safe all alone. Not asking. Not taking that risk. And now…” George tails off, shaking his head.

Okay, so it's not about their work. It's about Julie after all. “It’s been hard,” Matt says carefully. He sees again Brett sitting on the bed in his quarters, seeking refuge from the rest of the house. He sees her face crumple, feels her shoulders shake as she leans in to him, the tears soaking into his jacket. “It’s been really hard, but she’s hanging in there.”

“She talks about you a lot,” George says. He turns to face Matt, suddenly, his gaze catching Matt’s and holding. “And everyone at the firehouse, of course, but we hear your name a lot. More than anyone else’s, I reckon.”

“She’s a good friend.”

“The last time our Sylvie talked about a boy this much, it was Harrison Clements.” His voice has gone sharp, suddenly, and he’s still looking right at Matt. “I expect you’ve heard of him?”

And suddenly it's no longer about Brett's birth-mom and instead it's Casey who's sitting square in the firing line. “I remember Harrison, yeah.”

“It’s easy to take advantage of a person when they’re hurting.”

Matt blows out a long breath. “We’re friends, that’s all.”

“Are you sure about that? Because it seems to me that you used to be married, and now you’re not and all of a sudden you’re awfully close to my daughter.”

Casey tenses, clenching his hands into fists and pressing them against the seams of his jeans. He tries to ward off the anger. It’s fine, it’s nothing – George isn’t trying to pick a fight, he’s just… worried about Sylvie. He’s just being a good father.

Not that Matt would know anything about those.

“We’re just friends,” he repeats. “If you ask Brett she’ll say the same thing.”

George stares into Casey’s face. Whatever he sees there must – hopefully – reassure him, because he nods slowly and then turns towards the farmhouse.

“We’d better get on,” he says. “Go and get ourselves dressed up nice.”

“Right,” Matt agrees. “Yeah.”

He can still feel the anger smouldering, deep down, and he very deliberately stays a couple of paces behind Brett’s dad while they walk back towards the farmhouse.

The wedding itself is outside; there’s a large marquee set up over the seating and aisle to give them all a little shade, but rows of grape vines flank them on either side and the grass is thick and green. Climbing roses twine up the poles of the marquee and curve across the wedding arch at the end of the aisle. It’s actually a little… fancier… than Casey had anticipated. He feels a bit underdressed in a basic suit, like maybe he should have a buttonhole rose or a bowtie – or any tie, actually, because he’d forgotten to pack one.

Consoling himself with the thought that at least he’s just one among many in the audience, he allows himself to be ushered to his seat in the row behind Brett’s parents, and settles in to wait for the bride.

Matt likes weddings. He’s always liked weddings; liked the symbolism and ceremony that goes along with the commitment. A relationship – even a marriage – can be a very private thing, but a wedding is two people making a promise in the most public, visible way that they can. It’s about telling _everyone_ how you feel, so that no one can ever doubt again. And sure, it hasn’t gone so well for him, but there’s still this powerful sense of hope about the whole thing. Matt feels it when he watches Eric step up to the celebrant, waiting, anxiety and eagerness battling all over his face.

The music begins so quietly that Matt almost doesn’t hear it. A hush falls incrementally over the audience as each of them realise that their neighbours have stopped talking. The procession has started. Casey wants to twist and watch it, but his ribs sting when he tries, so he sits facing forward instead, his eyes drifting over the back of each bridesmaid and groomsman.

He’s a little surprised at the flood of recognition when he finally sees Brett. Just the way she walks – the way she carries herself – is enough. The straps of her rich blue dress criss-cross over her back and her hair is elaborately styled up with gentle curls escaping at the nape of her neck. The groomsman she’s walking with pauses to kiss her cheek before they part, and Matt wonders, resentfully, if Brett’s dad will interrogate that guy to the nth degree as well.

As soon as he has the thought he feels like a jerk and shakes it off. He must be a little slow at wiping the feelings from his face, though, because Brett, standing now near the arch and facing the audience, meets his eyes and frowns.

_You okay?_ she mouths.

Casey nods, gives her a quick thumbs up and a flash of a smile. She smiles back, wide and happy, her eyes roving past him and over her parents, down to the end of the aisle. Whatever she sees there makes her smile grow just that little bit brighter. It’s the bride coming, Casey knows, and so he’s ready when the whole audience rises to their feet, and he rises with them, twisting despite the sting in his ribs to watch Maddie walk up the aisle. The woman has her vivid red hair gathered over one shoulder, contrasting with the white dress, and her face is practically glowing with love when she looks at Eric.

And Matt feels… buoyed. He’d gotten the first stirrings of it at Cruz’s wedding and he gets the same sense now, a tickle beneath his sternum, the faintest, vaguest thought that maybe he could do all this again.

He’s not ready yet and he knows it, but now he’s got this tiny hint of possibility lurking in the back of his mind. _Someday._

The reception is in a massive old barn, brilliantly lit and smelling strongly of wood polish and the cinnamon-scented candles which burn at every table.

“It’s to cover up the horse smell,” Brett whispers, smothering a giggle while she pushes Matt in the direction of their table. “The Martins use this place as a stable, really. They’re Maddie’s aunt and uncle. She and her sister used to spent summers out here with their cousins. It’s how she met Eric.”

“What, here?” Matt asks.

“Not actually in the barn,” Brett says. “I think they used to sneak out and meet here to make out though, when they were like fifteen.”

“How romantic,” Matt says dryly.

“It is romantic! Shut up.” They’ve reached the table and Brett gives him a quick, searching look. “Are you sure you’re feeling up to it?”

“Hey. I’m fine. Stop worrying.”

“Okay, but-”

“Plus,” he says, “I’m starving and I heard this place has cake.”

Brett laughs. “Not cake. It’s a giant pile of macarons.”

“Seriously?”

“Mmhmm. It’s like a macaron tower. You’ll see. Eric hates it.” She grins at him. “There’s dancing first, though, so you'll have to wait.”

“Save me a dance?” Matt suggests.

“Only if it’s a slow song. A _really_ slow song.”

“You know you’re not my actual doctor, right?”

“Yeah,” Brett says, “but I always save the slow dances for my plus ones.” She eyes him up and down and then shakes her head mournfully and adds, “If only Foster had been able to come. She looks much better on the dance floor than you.”

“Hey!” Matt exclaims.

Sylvie giggles. “I’m kidding!”

“You better be.”

“…Maybe.”

“Say sorry,” Matt orders, “or I’ll make sure that everything the servers drop off for you gets mysteriously eaten while you’re dancing.”

“You’d never do something that mean.”

“Try me.”

She grins at him, says, “You’re almost as beautiful as Foster,” and then turns and flounces away before Matt can get the last word. Typical. 

He watches Sylvie dancing; with her father, with Eric and even with Maddie, the two of them laughing and taking it in turns to twirl each other. The DJ sticks to fast, upbeat songs until it’s time for food. There’s salmon for dinner, soft and flaky and almost the best-cooked fish Matt’s ever tasted. Brett pushes the cherry tomatoes from her side salad off of her plate and onto his. The wine flows freely. They talk about anything and everything; Brett’s mom, Ella, is just as cheerful and easy-going as Brett is, which Matt finds a bit of a relief after his grilling from George that morning.

Eric eventually drops into his seat beside his sister, wolfs down a few bites of salmon and then vanishes again to do more socialising. Several minutes later, Maddie follows his example, throwing herself into her seat and shovelling down quick forkfuls of food.

“I’m exhausted,” she says to Brett, quirking one eyebrow and brushing a hand over her stomach. Brett gives her a sympathetic smile.

“Sit for a while,” she says. “I’ll make nasty faces at anyone who tries to talk to you.”

“Thanks.” Maddie blows a lock of hair off her forehead. “You’re gonna be a great sister-in-law. I can tell.”

Brett looks extremely flattered. She sits up straighter and puts her shoulders back and beams.

Matt laughs at her, becoming aware as he does it that he’s definitely a little tipsy. “You look so _pleased_ with yourself.”

She whacks at his arm. “Shut up.”

Someone starts clinking cutlery and glasses together and Maddie jerks her head up and says, “Oh, God, I think my uncle’s going to give a speech.”

There are, in fact, several speeches. Even Brett stands up and talks, briefly, about her brother. She tells some absurdly cute story from their childhood; about Eric jumping from a tree onto a trampoline and breaking his arm…

“And, of course, a young Sylvie absolutely _had_ to splint it herself before taking him back to Mom and Dad,” Brett says, grinning down at her brother. “Later on, when he had his plaster cast and, I have to admit, a _lot_ of painkillers, he was sweet enough to tell me I was as good as a real doctor.”

“I inspired her life’s calling!” Eric hollers out, to much laughter and some applause.

Further speeches start to fall a little further from the mark as the microphone is passed to extended family members who are increasingly eager to score a laugh from the fairly drunk audience. Macaron cake is served with bowls of ice cream. A few too many toasts are made, and Matt’s glass is refilled twice before he decides to cut himself off.

Eventually, as things wind down, the lights dim and the music turns back up, now playing much slower songs. A few couples get up and sway on the dance floor, Brett’s parents among them. Matt actually doesn’t feel much like dancing now, but he turns to Brett anyway. Her cheeks are flushed and her hair is coming loose in wisps and curls around her ears.

“Hey,” she says, quiet below the music. “Wanna go for a walk? Get some air?”

“Yeah, actually. That sounds great.”

They stand up and make their way over to the dance floor like they’re going to join the other people there, but Brett instead weaves her way between the dancers and Matt follows her to a little side door in one corner of the barn.

“Come on,” she says, pushing it open. “I know a good place.”

Outside everything is a dusky blue, with the last remnants of the sunset glowing to the west, glorious pinks, oranges and yellows shining spectacularly at the edge of the flat horizon. Fowlerton is _really_ flat, and the land stretches out for interminable miles before it finally reaches the sky. Fairy lights are strung between the garden trees and there’s a cool breeze, which is a relief after the heat of the crowded barn. Casey stuffs his hands into his pockets and Brett slips off her heels, walking barefoot through the grass.

“It was good, wasn’t it?” she asks him. “A good wedding?”

“Absolutely.”

“Eric seemed happy,” she says, and then she sighs.

Matt nudges her shoulder with his own. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” she returns. “I’m okay, I’m just… I dunno. Wistful, I guess.”

“You nearly had this,” Matt says. “The Fowlerton wedding.”

“Yeah.” She laughs, a little ruefully. “Twice.”

He’d forgotten about the Chaplain, actually; after what George had said, Casey'd been thinking more about her first wedding and the runaway groom who had sent her fleeing to Chicago. But there was Kyle, too, of course, even if Matt doesn’t often think about that. Those couple of months had been awful, with both Otis and Brett gone from the firehouse. None of it had made any sense. When she’d returned, her absence had sort of faded from his mind like a bad dream.

“Do you wish you’d stayed?” he asks now.

Immediately, she says, “No. No, I don’t.”

“There you go, then,” Matt says. “Nothing to be sad about.”

“I know. It’s just strange to see this. Growing up, I always thought I’d have this, you know? And I thought it was what I wanted. Now I know it isn’t, and I don’t think it ever will be. It feels strange to let go of that dream.” She pauses, catching the crook of his arm to make him stop walking as well, and frowns up at him. “Does that - is that stupid?”

“Not at all.”

They keep walking. Crickets chirp stridently around them, and the edge of Sylvie’s dress swishes against the grass. She keeps her hand tucked into Matt’s arm. He’s a little surprised by how comfortable and easy it all feels. Being with Brett is effortless in a way that he’s never really questioned.

“Did you mean it?” she asks suddenly. “When you said me and the Chaplain were good together. Did you mean that?”

_No_. Casey’s heart answers immediately, but the message gets lost somewhere on the way to his head, and when his mouth opens all that comes out is, “Uh, I…”

The barn door bangs open behind them, sending a wash of light and noise out across the grass. Sylvie turns, blinking, and Matt puts a hand up to shield his eyes.

“Sylvie!” It’s a woman’s voice.

“Mom?”

“Your phone has been ringing non-stop since you left, sweetheart,” Ella says. She’s crossing the grass towards them now, a little too unsteady in her heels to run but fast enough that Matt gets a sense of urgency from her. “I think it’s something important.”

“I – really?” Sylvie asks. She flicks a glance at Matt.

“Shift doesn’t start until tomorrow,” he says, knowing that she'll be thinking about their firehouse family first. 

Ella has reached them now, the phone outstretched in her hand. Brett takes it from her mother, taps at it with careful fingers.

“I don’t know who-” she starts, and then the phone begins to ring. Brett takes a couple of steps away from them as she answers it, raising it to her ear. “Hello?” she says quietly, and then, after a pause, “Yes, this is she.”

There’s an impossibly long, frozen moment, when the crickets seem to falter and the noise from the party behind them is distant and hushed and the three of them are standing in this tiny, remote patch of grass and _waiting_.

Sylvie turns around and the look on her face makes Matt’s stomach drop through his feet.

“Who is it?” he asks, mouth dry with fear, because something is terribly, terribly wrong.

She just stares at him, pale and ghostlike, shakes her head slightly because she’s still got the phone pressed to her ear; she’s still listening to whatever awful thing they’re telling her.

Matt’s heart thunders in his ears. He can see the wet shine of tears in Sylvie’s eyes and he wants to grab her – to hold her – but he can’t, not yet. He curls his hands into fists inside his pockets. He forces himself to breathe slowly and he keeps his eyes fixed on Brett and he waits.

He waits while she says, “Yes,” and, “Yes,” and, “Yes, I understand,” in a soft, trembling voice. He waits while she hangs up the phone and drops it into the grass and only then, when she bends double and starts to sob, does he allow himself to go to her and pull her into his arms.


	3. And Amelia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG finally back to this story! I totally meant to complete this whole thing during the pandemic lockdown - except then I ended up being super lucky, because the part of Australia where I live barely locked down at all - but that meant real life interrupted my writing. RUDE.
> 
> I am also WAY behind on the show wow I didn't even realise S9 had started until I was writing this chapter. I can't wait to watch it! :D

Scott had called 911 before he’d done it. That’s the part that Sylvie’s mind sticks on. He’d been calm enough, _rational_ enough to call and make sure his 3-month-old daughter wouldn’t be left alone too long. He must’ve known no one could get to the house in time to stop him. He’d left a note apologising to the EMS workers who would find his body.

Sylvie’s name and number had been in the note, too. She’s in Scott’s will, which had been waiting on the desk near his body, as his daughter’s chosen guardian. He’d done his best to ensure everybody knew who baby Amelia was meant to be with.

Sylvie had FaceTimed him last week. He’d sounded fine – normal – he’d looked happy. He’d showed her Amelia’s brand-new gurgling laugh. He’d suggested that she drive up to see them sometime in July.

She hadn’t caught even a hint of what was coming.

Hot tears fill up Sylvie’s eyes again and she wipes them away with the corner of her pillow. It had been Mom’s idea for Sylvie and Casey to stay one more night at the house before leaving for Rockford – she’d said they needed the sleep before they drove four hours – and Sylvie had agreed, at the time. She’d been in shock. It had been all she could do to pull herself together and pretend everything was fine while she hugged Eric and Maddie goodbye. There wasn’t any point in ruining their evening, too.

Now, though, lying in her childhood bedroom, staring up at the pale ceiling with Dopey’s warm head heavy on her legs, Sylvie regrets agreeing to Mom’s plan. She hasn’t been able to sleep even for a second. She feels sick to her stomach. There’s a weight pressing on her chest and she can hardly breathe. She can’t look after a baby. She can’t.

She reaches over to the end table for her phone and checks the time: 12:47am. She’s been lying in bed for three hours. Sylvie drops the phone and closes her eyes. If she could just _sleep_ … she desperately wants to be able to stop thinking for a minute. A second, even.

She keeps her eyes shut and deliberately slows her breathing; she focuses on Dopey’s soft snores and tries all the tricks she uses at work to clear her mind after a tough call and ready herself for the next one. Nothing works, no matter how long Sylvie tries.

She rolls back over to her phone after what feels like an hour – it’s been twenty minutes. Blankly, she stares at the purple flower on her phone’s lock screen. She can’t do this – she can’t keep waiting like this.

Almost automatically, she unlocks the phone and opens her messages, scrolling straight to Casey’s name. She hesitates for only a second before she types.

_Are you awake?_

His reply is immediate. _Yeah._

Without stopping to think, Sylvie throws off the sheets and slides her legs out from under Dopey. She opens her bedroom door and finds Matt already standing in the hallway.

He takes one look at her and says, “I’ve packed my stuff.”

“Oh, thank God,” Sylvie says. “Me too. I can’t wait here.”

He nods. “I know. I’ll take the bags down to the car.”

“I’ll tell my parents,” Sylvie whispers. She grabs her duffel off the floor beside the door and hands it to Casey. His fingers brush hers and she meets his eyes. “Thank you.”

He shrugs. “Of course,” he says, like it’s no big deal. Like he’s not dropping everything to drive her halfway across two states in the middle of the night.

Sylvie wants to lean into him; to bury her face in his shoulder and cry like she has done too many times before. For a moment the feeling is overwhelming and she can’t move away. She takes a deep, shuddering breath and Casey puts his hand on her shoulder and squeezes.

“You good?” he asks.

Sylvie forces herself to nod. “I’m good,” she says; wishes saying the words would make them true. She pats her thigh to call Dopey out of her bedroom before she closes the door. Casey scruffs a hand over the dog’s head as goodbye and then makes for the stairs. Eager to be a part of the action, Dopey follows him, paws thudding on the wood as he races to beat Matt down.

At the end of the hallway, Mom and Dad’s door looms. As a kid, Sylvie had charged into this room at all hours without a second thought – and now she hesitates even as she raises her hand to knock. Maybe it’s wrong to wake them. Maybe she should just send a text from the car and then call them in the morning at a more reasonable hour.

Even as she thinks it, though, she knows that they’d hate that. She only wants to do it because she’s a coward. She can’t face saying goodbye, not right now. If she sees their faces she knows she’ll cry again.

Sylvie knocks on the door. “Mom?” she says softly. “Momma?”

There’s a low murmur and a rustling of bedclothes inside the room before the door opens.

“Sweetheart,” Mom says, and Sylvie breaks right away. She crumples forward into her mom’s arms and they close tightly around her back.

By the time Sylvie gets out to the car she’s exhausted from crying. Her eyes are swollen and sticky and her head hurts. She’s pulled a sweater on over her pyjamas and stuffed her feet into sneakers. Her dad walks her down to the front door and kisses the top of her head.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he says, so that those are the last words Sylvie hears and they’re the ones that echo when she climbs into her car and slams the door.

“Okay?” Casey asks.

“Not okay,” Sylvie answers, and he just nods and starts the engine.

She’s too tired to keep crying. Instead she rests her forehead against the cool glass and stares out into the blackness beyond the streetlights. The worst part is that she knows Dad’s right. She _doesn’t_ have to do this. She doesn’t owe Scott anything. She could just let go – of Julie, of Amelia – and the baby will probably be adopted within weeks and never know that Sylvie even exists.

It’s an impossible choice. 

Matt reaches over and finds her hand and it’s like a lifeline. Sylvie clings as tight as she can, feeling the callouses on his palm and the strength in his long fingers.

She doesn’t speak, or turn to look at him, but she doesn’t slacken her fierce grip on his hand for even a second. He doesn’t say anything, either, but he drives one-handed and shifts gears without ever letting go.

“Sylvie.”

Her eyes sting when she forces them open. She rubs her hands over her face and blinks a few times until she can focus on Casey, who is leaning over the centre console towards her.

“Hey,” Sylvie mumbles through dry lips. She clears her throat and tries to sit up properly, peeling her forehead away from the window. “How long was I asleep?”

“A couple of hours,” Casey says. “It’s just after six.”

They’re in a parking lot surrounded by short, squat brick buildings. The sky is awash with golden light; the sun is rising somewhere behind them. All of her memories come flocking back at once and Sylvie suddenly feels like she’s going to be sick.

Casey says, “Hey.”

She swallows, hard, and shifts her focus onto him. “You drove us the whole way,” she notes, frowning. “I’m sorry. You should’ve woken me.”

“You looked like you needed the sleep,” he says simply.

Sylvie runs a hand through her hair, finger-combing it away from her face. Casey is watching her carefully, and when she looks up and meets those earnest blue eyes she can’t help blurting out the uppermost thought in her mind. “I don’t have to do this.”

He nods slowly. “You’re right,” he says. “You don’t.”

That doesn’t help. Brett drops her chin to her chest and stares at her pink pyjama shorts. For a moment, she thinks she might cry again, but she’s too numb for tears. Instead she just sits there, dry-eyed, and picks with blunt fingernails at the fraying hem of her shorts.

“Hey,” Casey says, reaching out and lifting her chin, gently turning her face towards him. “This isn’t fair, okay? None of this is fair. You deserve better than this and – and if you want to walk away, that’s allowed.”

“I can’t,” Sylvie says hollowly. “That would make me a horrible person.”

Matt’s thumb ghosts along the side of her jaw. “Nothing could make you a horrible person,” he says.

He’s suddenly too close and it’s too much and a blossoming warmth unfurls in Sylvie’s chest and she thinks, no. No, she doesn’t want to feel this. She doesn’t want to be thanking God that she’s got Matt beside her right now instead of Foster.

She pulls her head back, just slightly, and Matt reads her unspoken cue instantly and takes his hand away from her face. Immediately, Sylvie misses his touch, but she pushes that thought aside.

“I don’t know what to do,” she says. “Tell me what to do.”

“Brett… I can’t. It’s your choice.”

She shakes her head. “No,” she says. “No, tell me. You knew that I wanted to keep Julie’s letter before I did.” Her voice cracks over her birth-mom’s name and suddenly the elusive tears are back, welling up and then spilling over when she blinks. She wipes her cheeks with the sleeve of her sweater and sniffs, trying to keep them at bay.

“You knew that you wanted that letter,” Matt says. “You just weren’t ready to admit it to yourself.”

Sylvie says, “ _No_.” She’d wanted to get rid of the letter – she’d told him twice to throw it away. He’d known, somehow, that her mind would change. He’d known before she had. And if he’d known then, surely he knows now. Surely he can tell her the right answer – the one that she won’t regret. She can’t stand the thought of looking back in six months and realising that this moment, right here, was where she’d screwed up.

“Trust yourself a little more,” he says.

“I can’t do this!” But, when she really stops and thinks about it, she remembers how much she’d wanted that letter. She’d given it to Matt so that she wouldn’t give into temptation and open it. Why not? Why, when she’d wanted it so badly?

Because she’d been thinking about her parents, that’s why. Mom, Dad, even Eric. She’d been wondering what they’d feel, if she opened that letter. She’d been scared of hurting them and, even more, she’d been scared of losing them. Scared that, if she read something from her birth-mom, it would somehow push her real family out of her heart.

“Sylvie,” Matt says softly. “This choice is about you. It’s not about Scott, or Julie, or what you think you owe them. It’s not about what your mom or dad said to you, either. It’s only about you.”

He might actually be able to read her mind, Sylvie thinks. She swallows hard and says in a tiny, choked voice. “And Amelia.”

“What?”

“It’s about me and Amelia, now.”

Casey gives her half a smile. “That sounds like someone who knows what she wants.”

Sylvie nods. Of course she knows, deep down. She’d decided last night, listening to that too-calm voice on the other end of the phone upending her whole life. Or she’d decided two months ago, in April, when Scott had come to the firehouse and asked her to take the baby. She’d known even then that she’d do it, if there was no other option. She’d make sure Amelia knew, while she was growing up, that her mother had wanted her – and her sister had wanted her, too.

Except Brett won’t be the sister, now. She’ll be the mom.

“Oh, God,” she says, burying her face in her hands, feeling her own skin sticky with tears. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t even know where to start.”

“Walmart opens at seven.”

She lifts her head and stares at Matt to see if he’s actually lost it. Or maybe she’s the one who’s lost it. “What?”

“I looked it up,” he says, lifting his phone. “They sell car seats.”

And, this time, the surge of love through Sylvie’s chest is so strong that she can’t deny it anymore. She can’t call it anything other than what it is.

Fuck, she doesn’t want to fall in love. Not with him.

She crushes the feeling down as far as she possibly can and says, striving to sound steady and _normal_ , “I’m lucky you’re here.”

“I’m here for as long as you need me,” he says simply.

Sylvie wipes her face on her sleeve and clears her throat. “Thanks,” she says. “I should probably get dressed.”

“Good idea.”

She watches him for a moment, but he isn’t moving, so she says, “Um. In here? If that’s okay?”

“Oh. Right.” Casey reaches over and pops his door open. “I’ll wait outside.”

Amelia is sleeping when Brett finally reaches her, after filling out paperwork and being offered the services of a counsellor and a course of parenting classes and a chance to pick things up from Scott’s house.

“I don’t have a key,” she’d said, startled, and the DCFS worker had told her that was okay, because the police were still at the house. The thought had sent a shudder through Brett and she’d shaken her head and asked if she could please just see the baby.

Even when Sylvie strokes a finger over Amelia’s velvety soft, chubby cheek and traces the tiny shell of her ear, she doesn’t wake up. The baby has her head turned to the side, her hand curled into a fist and her thumb just slipping out of her mouth. She’s got a snub nose and a small, round chin and the most perfect miniature fingernails.

Carefully, Sylvie slides a hand under Amelia’s head and another under her back and lifts the baby up to rest against her chest. There’s a moment where Amelia stirs a little, but then she pops her thumb back into her mouth and her eyes stay closed, gorgeous long lashes fanning out above those cherubic cheeks.

Sylvie lowers her head until her lips brush Amelia’s downy fuzz of pale hair. She inhales that clean, milky baby scent and doesn’t let herself cry, because then she’s sure that DCFS really _won’t_ let her leave until she’s booked one of the half-dozen counselling services on the leaflet they’ve given her.

Instead, she holds Amelia close to her chest and focuses on the steady rise and fall of the baby’s breathing until, finally, it’s all over and she’s walking back out to the parking lot and suddenly she’s on her own.

“This is it,” she says quietly, to herself and to Amelia. “No going back now.”

She’s not quite on her own, though, because as she walks around the corner of the building she sees Matt waiting for her, standing beside the car and holding a golden-furred plush teddy bear that’s as big as Amelia.

Without meaning to, for the first time since she’d got the call, Sylvie finds herself smiling. 

The rear-facing car seat makes it a little easier for Sylvie to buckle Amelia in, but it means that she can’t get eyes on the baby at all. Even though she finds herself craning to peer through the rear-view mirror a few times on their drive home, so long as Amelia is quiet, there’s no evidence that she’s even back there.

Unfortunately, she doesn’t stay quiet for long. They hit traffic on the I-90 after almost an hour. Sylvie brakes, downshifts, and then hears the faintest sound from the backseat. Amelia is whimpering softly.

“Uh oh,” Sylvie says, glancing at Matt. “She’s awake.”

The whimpers increase steadily in volume until Amelia is wailing loudly, filling the car with the sound. Uncomfortably, Sylvie twists in her seat to try and get a look. Casey grips her shoulder.

“Watch the road,” he says.

“Right,” Sylvie agrees, even though they’re crawling along at 20mph. She stares fixedly ahead, but all of her attention is focused on the backseat. “Can you see her?”

Casey turns, pushing his head around the side of his seat to try and peer into Amelia’s capsule. Sylvie thinks, belatedly, that they should’ve put the car seat behind the driver, not the passenger. Matt’s practically doing circus-act contortions just to get a glimpse inside.

“Hey there,” he says. “Hey, we’re all here. You’re not on your own back there. It’s okay, sweet girl.”

“Is she okay?” Sylvie asks anxiously. “Should I pull over?”

“She’s just had a bit of a scare, I think,” Casey says. “She’s woken up all alone.” He contorts further, stretching one of his arms out behind his seat so that he can reach the baby. “Hey, sweetie. Hey.”

“What if she’s hungry? I don’t have – I didn’t think…”

“She can hang on for another hour. We’re nearly home.”

“Okay,” Sylvie says. She resolves to concentrate on driving.

“Anyway, you need a steriliser and bottles and stuff to mix formula, don’t you?”

Her concentration shatters. “I should’ve gone to Scott’s,” she says, realising it too late. “All that stuff will be at the house. We could’ve just picked it up and maybe fed her before we left and… I’m an idiot.”

“You didn’t want to see the crime scene,” Casey rationalises. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Sylvie shakes her head. “It’s not supposed to be _about_ me anymore,” she snaps, furious with herself. “I’m an idiot!”

“You’re not-”

“Fuck!”

The expletive is loud enough that there’s a startled silence from the backseat, and then Amelia starts to _scream_ , a sound that bounces around the car and drills straight into Sylvie’s skull, so loud that she can’t hear herself think. It’s all she can do not to run straight up the rear of the car in front of them. 

“Jesus,” Matt says. “Hey, hey, Amelia.” His placations aren’t working anymore. The noise doesn’t lessen in the slightest.

“We gotta stop,” Sylvie says. “Crap, where can we stop?” They’re on a goddamn _highway_ , there’s nowhere to stop, but Amelia’s screaming is causing actual physical pain and, more than that, it feels like a blatant advertisement of Brett’s failure. This is the first test – her very first chance to show that she can do this, that she can parent – and she’s already screwing it all up.

“There,” Casey says, pointing. “Take the exit – for the forty-seven, look, there.”

The traffic is the only reason that Sylvie doesn’t miss it. Fortunately, she’s moving slowly enough that she has time to swerve into the exit. With a clear road ahead of her, she puts cruise control on and bumps up their speed – this certainly isn’t some of her best driving ever, but she doesn’t care – and then they blow under a toll arch.

“I don’t have an I-Pass,” Sylvie shouts over the screaming.

Casey shakes his head, yells back, “It’s okay! You can pay within two weeks!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah!”

They pass an unpaid tolls warning sign and Sylvie gestures wildly to it. “That says seven days!”

“Brett,” Casey snaps. “Just drive.”

They just catch the green at the traffic lights. Sylvie turns right without thinking about it and then finds to her dismay that she’s driving down another six-lane highway, bordered by flat green fields on both sides and with nowhere that feels safe enough to pull over. The right turn was a mistake – it seems like all she can do right now is make stupid mistakes.

Matt’s hand lands on her thigh and Sylvie becomes aware that she’s jogging her leg up and down uncontrollably, bouncing her heel against the car’s footwell.

He doesn’t say anything, but his hand is warm and solid and it’s enough to remind Sylvie to stop. To breathe. To recover that part of herself that drives an ambulance; that deals with crisis after crisis for twenty-four hours straight. This responsibility feels somehow heavier, but it’s not worse than holding a patient’s life in her hands.

She turns cruise control off so that she has to put her foot back on the pedals, forcing her to keep her leg still. She slows the car down a little and tries to block out the screaming. It’ll be fine. It’s all okay. The road unspools before them and there’s another set of traffic lights in the distance.

Matt leans closer until his mouth is beside her ear. “Turn left at the lights,” he says.

Sylvie glances over and sees that he has his phone balanced on his leg, with the map app open. Again, she’s struck by how much harder it would be to do this alone. Or, rather, how much harder it _will_ be – because she’s a single mom now, dear Lord, help-

She shakes it off, turns left at the light and follows Casey’s directions down a narrow old road with grey, cracked bitumen. They pass a farmhouse with a classic red-roofed barn and a grain silo that sends a painful pang of homesickness through Brett. It’s not even home that she’s sick for, really – it’s the life that she’d had before today. The life she’d had six months or a year ago; before Julie, before Otis, back when she’d thought that witnessing Jimmy’s injury and finally letting go of Antonio were the hardest things she’d ever done. 

“Left again,” Casey says, and Brett slows to make the turn. There’s a boxy red-and-white building at the end of the road that reminds her a little of Firehouse 51.

“Church on the Rock,” she reads as they drive past the sign out front. There’s an old gravel parking lot behind the church, and Casey gestures wordlessly to it. Sylvie frowns. “You think they’ll mind?”

“It’s a church, Brett. I don’t think they’ll mind.”

As they pull into the parking lot, Amelia’s screams turn into hitching sobs, which Sylvie would rate as a mild improvement. She notices for the first time that she’s got a pounding headache, although she isn’t sure whether it was caused by the noise or by the fact that it’s almost 10am and she hasn’t eaten anything.

The sobs are muffled when Brett shuts her door and then triple in volume when she opens the door to the backseat.

“Wow,” Sylvie says, “okay. I get it. You’re not happy, huh?” She leans over the car seat and unbuckles it, gently freeing Amelia’s little arms from the harness. The tiny fists are clenched furiously and her whole face is scrunched up, eyes tight shut and mouth open wide. Sylvie doesn’t particularly want to bring the source of that noise any closer to her, but she lifts the baby anyway, tucking Amelia against her shoulder and wincing at the ear-shattering decibels.

She starts bouncing on the balls of her feet, keeps Amelia pressed to her chest. She turns away from the church to stare across the green fields to the pastel blue horizon. There’s not a cloud in the sky today – it’s wide open and empty and gorgeous.

“Look at this,” Sylvie murmurs to the baby. “It’s going to be a good day for hard work. You know who used to say that? My dad did. Like, a lot.”

The sobs settle into steady _wah-wah-wah_ wailing punctuated by gasping breaths. Sylvie rubs her hand up and down the skinny little back, feeling the knobs of Amelia’s spine beneath her fingertips.

“You know what else my dad used to say?” she continues. “Well, actually, not _say_. But he used to sing this song, any time at all. When he was happy, or when he was sad, or when I asked him to.” She stops bouncing and starts to sway, side-to-side, slow and steady. “It’s a song about summertime. It goes like this.” She starts to hum, loud enough to be heard over the sobs, keeps rubbing Amelia’s back and feels the long, shuddering breath that goes through the baby girl’s whole body as the crying finally starts to peter out.

Casey’s hand lands between Sylvie’s shoulder blades. “Well done,” he says in a low voice.

She doesn’t stop humming – doesn’t want to risk it – but she turns and smiles up at him, trying to convey just how much it means to her, having him here. How grateful she feels that she doesn’t have to do this alone and how insanely lucky she is to have a friend like him.

_A friend_ , she reminds herself. That’s all he is – and, truthfully? Right now, in this blessedly quiet moment under the endless sky, with Amelia’s body heavy in her arms and Matt’s hand warm on her back, she can almost convince herself that it’s enough.


	4. Hear Me Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look I still haven't caught up on the show and I keep seeing spoilers everywhere help.

Brett calls Foster while Matt is replacing the car seat on the driver’s side, so that he’ll be able to reach backwards for Amelia more easily. He tries not to listen in to her conversation, but his stomach clenches when he hears her voice tremble and crack through the hardest words.

They don’t talk about what she’s said when she buckles Amelia back in and climbs into the car. They don’t talk at all, in fact. The stereo stays on for the rest of their drive and Matt isn’t sure whether it’s the music or Sylvie joining in to sing softly along with every other song that keeps Amelia quiet.

They’re close to home when Brett says, tentatively, “I can drop you off at the loft.”

“What?”

“I mean, I don’t mind. That’s okay.”

Matt frowns over at her, but she’s staring at the road ahead and her face is unreadable. Unusual, for Brett. He can’t quite tell what she really wants, and so he falls back on what _he_ wants. It would feel wrong to leave them now. He’d spend the rest of his day wondering what they were doing, anyway. Like it or not, he’s invested in this now.

He’d be invested if any of his friends suddenly inherited a baby, he reminds himself. It’s got nothing to do with Brett.

“How about breakfast?” he says.

“Breakfast?”

“Yeah. I’m starving.”

“Me too,” she admits.

“Okay,” Matt says, “so, breakfast. Yeah? I know a good place near here.”

Sylvie hesitates for a moment and he’s sure she’s going to say no, but when she opens her mouth all she asks is, “Do they have pancakes?”

Matt’s a little startled by how relieved he feels. He clears his throat, says, “Uh huh, I’m pretty sure they have pancakes.”

Brett nods. “Okay,” she says.

They go for pancakes.

Taking Amelia into the diner with them is another slightly fraught venture, but the baby sits quiet and calm in the crook of Sylvie’s arm, wide-eyed as she takes in all of the Sunday brunch hustle and bustle. Casey watches Sylvie struggle one-handed with her pancakes for a minute before he pulls her plate across the table and cuts the stack into bite-sized pieces.

Brett flashes him a tired smile. “Thanks,” she says, as he slides the plate back. “We should’ve brought the car seat in.”

Matt shrugs. “It’s probably good for her to get some time out.”

Brett looks down at Amelia’s solemn little face. Again, Casey sees that unnatural surge of panic in the paramedic’s eyes, the same fear bordering on hysteria that he’d noticed in the car earlier. It’s not a look he’s used to seeing from Brett.

When she speaks, though, she sounds nothing but focused. “We’ll need to get formula first, because she’s got to be hungry by now. The steriliser and all that stuff. Plus she’ll need a crib and maybe, like, one of those baby jumpers or something – is she too young for that? And more clothes, I think, because DCFS only gave me a few of hers… oh, and diapers, of course…” she trails off, grimacing at Matt. “I mean, not _we_ , because you don’t have to come, obviously. Sorry.”

Matt shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

“I can handle it,” she says.

“I know you can.”

“I can still just drop you off.” She looks down at the baby again, avoiding his eyes.

“Yeah, you could,” Matt says. “But I’d feel pretty stupid sitting around at home by myself wondering what you were doing.” He shrugs. “Plus, there isn’t even any hockey on.”

That draws another tiny smile from Brett.

They fill the trunk of Brett’s car – and half of the back seat – with new baby equipment. The shopping trip doesn’t run as smoothly as breakfast. Amelia starts crying early and doesn’t seem eager to stop. Brett takes her into the women’s restroom to change her diaper, but comes back out with a baby who’s still just as fussy as when they went in.

“It didn’t really help,” Brett says. “I think I have to hurry up and feed her. It’s after noon.”

“I’ll come back to your apartment with you,” Matt offers. “I can help you carry the stuff in.”

“Um, no you can’t. _I’ll_ carry everything in with my nice, healthy ribcage.”

“I can still carry things!” Matt protests.

Brett gives him an appraising look. “Okay,” she says. “You can carry the baby.”

He doesn’t carry the baby – he has to _wear_ the baby, strapped to his chest in the brand new carrier – while Brett, true to her word, lugs the flat-pack crib and tins of formula up two flights of stairs and into the building’s elevator.

Casey feels simultaneously ridiculous and strangely nostalgic. It’s hard to remember but there had been a time where the idea of this – of having a baby – was simple and uncomplicated and just something he assumed would happen. Something that was guaranteed to be a part of his life one day. Now it feels almost comically farfetched.

Foster’s obviously been waiting for them, because she comes hurrying out of her room as soon as they step into the apartment.

“Hey,” she says. Her nose and eyes are red and her voice sounds thick and congested. “Sylvie…”

“I’m okay,” Brett says quickly. “And – and she’s okay too.”

Foster’s eyes flick from Casey’s face to the baby at his chest and then back up. “Hey, Casey.”

“Hi,” he returns. “How’re you feeling?”

“Crap,” she says bluntly. She turns back to Brett. “Look, I should stay in my room, but you’ll call me if you need anything, all right? Literally anything. I’ll do whatever you need.”

Brett nods. “Thank you,” she says earnestly.

“I mean it. Anything,” Foster reiterates, and then she turns and disappears back down the hallway.

Carefully, Brett settles the flat-pack and the formula on the living room floor. “I’ll go back down and get the rest of it,” she says. “Are you good here? With her?”

“Of course,” Casey tells her.

Brett’s stopped arguing, he notices – has stopped asking him if he’s sure, or if he _really_ wants to help – because all he gets this time is a grateful, “Thanks,” before she leaves.

Matt sinks onto the sofa with a groan of relief. He _is_ hurting, more than he’d like to let on, but it’s nothing he hasn’t felt before. He takes a moment, feeling the tight muscles in his back letting go one at a time, relaxing just enough to ease the tension through his neck and shoulders. When the pain has dulled into a milder ache he takes off the baby carrier and lifts Amelia out.

She starts to cry again as he resettles her on his lap. He shifts onto one hip and digs into his pocket for his keys, drawing them out and jangling them in front of Amelia’s face.

“Hey,” he says, voice as soft as he can make it. “Look at this! See the keys?”

She does see them, because both chubby fists shoot out at once and she makes a grab for his M Casey Construction key ring. She’s not quite co-ordinated enough to get it on her first try; her little fingers brush against the keys, setting them all clinking together. The crying stops as she stares, captivated by the sound.

“These are nice, aren’t they?” Matt shakes the keys so that the noise is repeated and Amelia tries for another clumsy grab. She gets his car fob this time, but Matt keeps his own grip firm so that when Amelia tugs the fob back towards her mouth, it slips from her hand and she has to reach out again.

Brett steps back into the apartment while Amelia is making a determined second effort to get the fob into her mouth. She stands and watches them for a moment, until Matt looks up and meets her eyes.

“All good?” she asks quietly.

“Yeah,” Casey says. “We’re great.” He nudges at the cardboard box holding the crib with his foot. “You want me to make a start on setting this up?”

“Oh, would you?” she asks. “Thanks. I’ll make her a bottle.” She steps closer to him and plucks Amelia up off his lap. “Hi, beautiful. You must be starving,” she murmurs to the baby, her face as soft as Casey’s ever seen it.

He slides off the couch and onto the floor, pulling the crib box towards him and using his keys to slice through the tape holding the cardboard flaps down. He can hear Brett still talking to the baby in the other room as he pulls the instructions clear of the box and starts to organise the pieces.

Casey’s exhausted – he can feel the fatigue creeping over him – but it’s not the first time he’s gone a night without sleep. He’s still able to kick his brain into gear, especially for something this simple, with the enclosed Allen key the only tool he needs. Rather than think too hard about it being a crib, or why he’s building it in someone else’s apartment, he slips into a construction-type mindset and focuses only on the specifics of the work in front of him. Wood, metal and muscle. He prefers it that way; less chance of him dredging up any old memories that might still sting.

He’s just about finished when Brett walks back into the room, baby up against her shoulder and a bottle in her hand.

“Hey!” she exclaims. “That looks great!”

Matt smiles. “It’s a good quality crib,” he says reassuringly. “Are you leaving it in here?”

Brett shakes her head. “In my room, I think.” She glances around the floor of the formerly tidy adult living room, suddenly strewn high with baby paraphernalia. “I can move it in now and get some of the rest of this stuff packed away, too, if you don’t mind feeding her?” She tilts the bottle towards Matt uncertainly.

“Sure,” he says, because it’s a baby and a bottle; not exactly difficult.

The crib fits through the doorframe and into the hallway, although it’s a tight squeeze. Brett almost drops it at the door and Casey half gets up to help, but she recovers herself. As she disappears with the crib, he gets back to the matter at hand – specifically, baby-feeding. Not his one of his professional areas of expertise, but how hard can it be, really?

Vaguely, as he tucks Amelia into the crook of one arm and rubs the bottle teat across her lips, he remembers doing this with Violet a long time ago. Almost eighteen _years_ since she’d been this small, which Casey can barely fathom. He hadn’t spent a whole lot of time with his niece as a baby, because he and Christie were fighting about Mom a _lot_ back then, but he’d still been there for Violet whenever he could be.

He looks down at Amelia, her eyes half-closed as she sucks away at the bottle and wonders briefly what she’ll be like when she’s eighteen, which leads him to wonder whether he’ll still know her, that far into the future. Surely he will. He tries to picture losing touch with Sylvie, having that friendship vanish from his life, and he can’t. It just doesn’t seem right.

He can’t imagine losing touch with _anyone_ from 51, of course. They’re family to him, all of them. 

The rhythmic sucking on the bottle slows, and Casey looks down to see Amelia’s eyes closed and her mouth falling open. “Hey,” he says quietly, jostling her a little. “Wake up, sweetie.”

Her eyelids flutter and she stares up at him uncomprehendingly before she closes them again. Her mouth stops moving on the bottle and Casey gives up and takes it away – there’s very little milk left inside – so that he can lift Amelia into a more comfortable position. He settles one hand under her padded diaper and lets her head fall against his chest, her legs splayed out on either side like a little frog.

Brett comes back into the room, bending to sweep the diaper packs into her arms. “Is she asleep?” she asks quietly.

Casey looks down at Amelia’s face; the sweep of her eyelashes over the tops of her flushed cheeks, the slack bow of her mouth sitting half-open. “Yeah,” he says, his voice just as muted.

“Wow,” Brett says softly. “Thank you.” She leaves the room with the diapers before Matt can protest that he hadn’t actually _done_ anything.

Amelia’s breathing is slow and a little snuffly, her whole tiny body moving with every inhale. Matt keeps one hand beneath her and the other firm on her back, feeling the steady rise and fall. There’s something soothing about it, he thinks, relaxing against the couch and letting his head tip back. He’s just going to close his aching eyes for a second, just to rest them. That’s all he needs – just a single second to relax.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, Brett’s voice saying, “Matt,” and he opens his eyes and looks up at her. She’s smiling; a real, genuine smile that reaches her eyes and catches that dimple at the corner of her mouth.

It feels like a long time since Matt’s seen that smile. He mumbles, “Good,” without thinking about it, still half asleep.

Her smile deepens. “Yeah? What’s good?”

Matt makes a groggy attempt to reach for her hand, but he’s distracted halfway by the baby. Tucking his chin into his chest, he squints blearily at the top of the baby’s head and her little fists and remembers _why_ Amelia’s here.

That’s enough to wake him up properly, and he struggles to sit up, only dimly recalling lying down on the couch in the first place. He hadn’t actually meant to fall asleep.

“How long was I out?” he asks Brett, who is perching on the edge of the couch beside his knees. Matt’s a little surprised, when he gets halfway to sitting, to realise that Amelia’s actually awake already, lying still and quiet against him. He shifts her off his chest and sits her on his lap and she stares wide-eyed at the rest of the room.

“A couple of hours,” Sylvie says. “I was going to let you sleep but… that baby smells _bad_.”

There is, now Matt thinks about it, a fairly distinctive, unpleasant smell wafting around him. He wrinkles his nose as he passes Amelia into Brett’s arms. “Good call. I’ll just be the fun uncle,” he jokes, “and not do any of that gross stuff. The smile drops off Brett’s face. Shit, he’s said something wrong. He scrambles to recover. “Everything okay?”

She seems to droop a little. “I have to tell my brother,” she says unhappily, and sighs heavily. “Eric wasn’t – he wasn’t exactly keen on me getting in touch with Julie in the first place. He was dead against it, actually. And now he and Dad are just going to think I’ve ruined my life taking on this burden that isn’t even my responsibility and I have no idea how to explain it to them.”

Matt sits up straighter, angling himself until he’s facing Brett. “Anything I can do?”

“I don’t know. I think I just need to talk to them about it.” She takes a deep breath. “I should call the Chief, too, right? I mean, I’ve only got tomorrow and Tuesday to find a nanny for the next shift which seems a little… impossible. I’ll probably need to take some time off so God knows how I’ll even manage to afford a nanny at this rate.”

Matt reaches for her hand and squeezes it tightly and she clings to him gratefully in return.

“If you wanted,” he suggests, “I could call Boden. Just… one less thing for you to deal with.” He knows even as he offers that she won’t take him up on it, and sure enough she’s already shaking her head before he’s even finished speaking.

“Thanks, but I should do it. I’ll be fine.”

The muscles in her neck tense as she swallows and Casey can see how hard she’s fighting to keep it together; the way she’s clenching her jaw, those little hitches in her breathing the only sign of the tears she’s not shedding. 

“You know,” he starts, still puzzling it out, “you could always ask Cindy for help with the next shift. I remember she used to have Louie for Gabby, sometimes, before we found a nanny.”

“Oh, no,” Brett says seriously. “No, I couldn’t ask her to do that. I mean, it was different when she had kids the same age but even Kenny’s seven now and you know how much Cindy needs that time with all of them at school. No way. I can’t put this on her.”

Matt looks at her askance. He’s not even sure he remembers which Herrmann kid Kenny _is_ – well, no, all right, he knows their names, but… “Kenny’s seven?” he asks Sylvie.

“Yeah! Isn’t he? I thought his birthday was last month.”

How the hell does she remember stuff like that? He says, “I’ll take your word for it,” and wonders if she sends the Herrmann kids birthday cards or something equally ridiculous and typically Brett.

It isn’t until she’s left the room, gone to change Amelia, that Casey finishes thinking over the babysitting conundrum. Actually, once he puts his mind to it, it doesn’t take him long at all. He checks the messages on his phone, notices that Amelia has drooled all over his shirt in her sleep, and then figures out the solution, just like that. He’d been thinking of any extended firehouse family that might be able to help at short notice – Cindy, Donna, Chloe – but it’s actually even more simple and far closer to home.

Sylvie comes back into the room with another smile. This one is for Amelia, who is cuddled up against Sylvie’s chest and, Matt has to admit, is looking pretty darn cute.

“Better now?” he asks.

“Mm, much.” She walks back towards him but doesn’t sit down, rocking gently from foot to foot. “I should drive you home.”

“Thanks,” Casey agrees, “but before you do, I’ve got another idea.” He wonders briefly if there’s a good way to lay it out so that Brett’s likely to accept, decides there isn’t and just blurts, “I can look after Amelia for you.”

She frowns, which he’d expected. “Matt-”

“Hear me out,” he says quickly. “I’ve got another two weeks off, minimum. That gives you another four shifts to work – that helps with the budgeting – and another fourteen days to look for a nanny.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering. I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t _know_ I could do this, Brett.”

“Okay, but-”

“Let’s just try it,” he suggests. “Just one shift. A trial run, right? And if it doesn’t work out, that’s fine.”

She takes a deep breath and runs a hand backwards through her hair. “Okay,” she says finally. “Okay, yes. Yes, please. Let’s try next shift.”

“Great,” Matt says, slapping his hands on his knees as he stands. He rubs the back of his finger over Amelia’s cheek and glances down into Brett’s bright blue eyes. “I’ll see you on Wednesday. Or, before, if you need anything. Just call, any time.” He smiles, remembering something Sylvie had offered him once before. “I’ll keep my ringer on.”


End file.
